Life With Emma and Other Assorted Useless Shit

It just occurred to me that I've missed answering not one, but TWO SP12 questions. My poor swap pal. She must think I'm a horrible flake and/or typist. The first one, sometimes. The second one, no. I'm actually an exceptional typist. I just haven't had the time to blog lately. With that having been said, here goes:

1) Where is your favorite place to go for vacation/holiday? Disneyland, along with San Diego on the same trip.

2) Where is one place you’d like to go? Anywhere I can swim with dolphins.

(Emma is on Daddy's lap, licking his ear and trying to wake him up.)

Okie dokie. Here is the question for this week:

What is your favorite type of project to take along on holiday/vacation? Socks.

(Daddy woke up for a minute, petted Emma, and fell back asleep; Emma is planning a counterattack.)

As for a story about overpacking knitting for a trip or running out of knitting, I always overpack. In fact, I've been known to bring along five or six pairs of socks to work on if I'm going to be gone a week. What usually happens is that I don't work on anything or, if I do, I get a few rows done before I fall asleep. Hence, I never run out of something to work on. I've also been known to find a yarn shop and buy something new. You know... in case I finish the five or six other projects I've brought along.

(Emma is now sucking on Daddy's chin; he's giggling like a loon.)

So what's been going on? Well, I had to cancel prison day last week because the pot roast had her first vet appointment. She's in perfect health, the ideal weight, and loves liver treats. I've never seen a dog (let alone a puppy) fall asleep on the table in the vet's office. She charmed everyone and had attention lavished on her. After her appointment, it was time to go back outside in the horrible heat that we had all week long. I was worried; bullies are prone to heatstroke and can't take temps above 80 degrees. It was 110. We hustled her into the truck where the A/C was blasting and got her home, where she promptly flopped on the couch and slept all evening.

(Emma and Daddy are now both asleep and snoring... another fun evening in the Mann household.)

Before I launch on to even more boring subjects, I've had several requests for baby pictures. I have to warn you that the pot roast is already the size of a Thanksgiving turkey. Please ignore the fat person in the pictures with her.





She's as unladylike as her mother.





This is how the family-size pot roast shows affection - with lots of sloppy kisses (and yes, Syd... she has puppy breath).





Yet another kiss which I can't seem to escape from. You try getting Emma off your lap when she wants to kiss you.





Every girl needs a stuffie.





Just like Daddy when you're trying to wake him up. One eye opens, and then you realize that he's really a zombie who isn't awake at all.





That's her chewy rope and the towel we went out and bought for her (she looks good in/on/eating purple). No, she doesn't have weird white eyes; Daddy fucked up the camera setting. Yes, that's my phone number; don't call and ask if you can have her. I might let you come play in the shop, though.

Speaking of the shop, we had a sale last week which went extremely well. I've also got a lot of new vendors (yes! more!) on the way. Monday is prison day, so I'll be gone this weekend (if you call, leave a message). Hubster will be taking pictures all next week since we can't work on the shop this weekend, and I'll be logging, tagging, and uploading pictures for your pleasure. I've got all kinds of cool things coming and/or here. Poor Emma has to be boarded because we'll be at the doctor's late in the afternoon. I'm worried that we won't be home in time to pick her up Monday night; it looks like she'll be in the kennel Saturday, Sunday, and Monday. Sigh. I wanted to bring her, but she can't sit in the car all day. She could probably come in the doctor's office, but it's hours between when I'm done at the prison and when my appointment is. Maybe I can figure something out... there's a cool dog/cat shop on H Street which welcomes pets... hm.

(I can't tell who's snoring louder; Daddy is slumped over on the couch, and Emma has her back feet braced against his thigh while laying on her side. Yes, her tongue is sticking out.)

Other than knitting (I started two new pairs of socks, which I'll show you if I actually finish them), I had a showdown with the beast that came out of my snatch. No, I'm not talking about lint or moths; I'm talking about our not-so-dear daughter. It seems that she's been paying for the kids' preschool and that's it. Mom is broke, and we're not far behind - we've been splitting all their expenses, and Hubster has the kids on his medical policies at work (mucho expensive premiums). Lily has to have speech therapy, which our insurance covers to a point - we're paying the remainder. All in all, everybody is being drained dry. Hubster and I ran out of money last week (literally); thank god we have overdraft protection, because we overdrafted. Quite frankly, I'm getting tired of eating sandwiches and holding my breath to see if we'll have enough money to last the entire pay period. If we didn't have so many fucking bills to pay, it wouldn't be a problem. We're being good citizens, though, and paying everything which got neglected during the nightmare a year ago. Don't worry - Emma has plenty of food, and I don't need to eat.

Anyway, the thing refused to call me, so I told Mom to pass along a message: either she called me the following evening, or I would drive until I found her. She knows I'll do it; I've done it before and always found her. So when she called the next evening, I lit into her. She thinks we're made of money and didn't understand why I should be allowed (that's what she said) to spend it on anything I wanted. Uh... excuse me? If I did have money, it would still be none of her business what I spent it on. She knows her grandmothers are broke (and with my grandma not able to walk anymore, their expenses are going up due to medical crap), and she just doesn't care. It's all about her - not us, not the kids, not Mom and Grandma - her. Or so she thinks. She likes to spout off a lot of shit about how she doesn't feel like the kids are hers (we don't let her take them anywhere because she has a nasty habit of taking off with men; who knows what would happen to those kids?), and because she feels that way, she doesn't think she should pay for them. I informed her that she did the nasty, got two buns in the oven and chose to keep them, and then popped them out her now floppy stomach (I'd like to say snatch again, but she had a C-section), and that made her their mother, like it or not. After a half-hour of railing against her, I finally got tired of hearing her snotty voice and hung up on her. Will it help? Will more money be given to my mother to help with their expenses? I don't know, but I hope so. She flat out told me she wants to marry this joker she's been dating, and I know it's because she wants to move out of Mom's house. All she does is bitch about it because things aren't the way she wants. The kid doesn't fork over a dime for rent, food, utilities - nothing. Find me a deal like that anywhere else and I'll take it myself. Sigh. I don't know how I spawned such a beast.

And so life goes on. I've got my puppy; I've got stash; I've even got some English muffins. What more do I need?

Some butter for my muffins would be nice.